


shatterpoint

by Recluse



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternating Perspectives, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Set Directly After Ep 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recluse/pseuds/Recluse
Summary: They both go home eventually.





	shatterpoint

Hiyori goes home.

He opens the door to his apartment slowly. Quietly. He shuffles off his shoes and sinks into his bed with a heavy flop, glasses going askew.

He has one thought.

_I hate this._

Why? Why was Ikuya so caught on Nanase? Why was he falling into stories and stars, in wishes when he had all the strength in his hands to grab his desires and meet them, why?

Why did they have to fight?

He takes his glasses off, tossing them onto his desk. He might regret that if they end up scratched, but currently he just can’t find the energy to care.

With his cheek pressed into the blanket, he thinks, staring aimlessly,

 _Ikuya_.

* * *

Ikuya opens his door and enters his apartment in the way a coming storm moves, a slow and angry rolling of the clouds, tension in the air but not yet ready to blow. He doesn’t turn on the lights, instead making his way by muscle memory, all his thoughts a slow whirlpool.

 _Hiyori_ , something whispers inside him, _looked upset._

He shakes his head and changes into his pajamas, tossing his other clothes onto the sofa to be dealt with later.

 _Who cares what Hiyori thinks._ He lies down on his bed. _It’s none of his business_.

Or so he says to himself, but the words ring petulant, hollower than he cares to notice. He closes his eyes.

He retreats into the darkness of the night, back to his thoughts in the playground. Lying on his bed, soft wind from his open window, the curtain’s _sshh._

In the back of his head, whispered words float, Hiyori’s voice faint, the look on his face.

_“You can become a new you, if that’ll bring you happiness―”_

He turns on his back and blocks it out. Seeks the night with his eyes closed.

* * *

Eventually, Hiyori gets off his bed and into his pajamas, proper clothes to sleep in. He can’t lie there and wallow, no matter if he wants to. There’s practice tomorrow, and he finds himself wanting to swim. To burn off the coil of something hot and cold low in his stomach, lurching waves of regret and upset, Ikuya’s eyes, his arm against his chest.

_“It’s none of your concern!”_

Would it have been better if he had kept his mouth shut? Would it have been better if he had let Ikuya look at an empty sky, had left him to sink into his thoughts? Would that have been okay? Would they have been okay, then?

He lies back down and covers his face with one arm. Screws his eyes shut.

_“I can’t be strong like Haru.”_

Ikuya’s hand had been cool and dry.

Hiyori’s had been hot. Are hot still, burning now, frustration and something otherwise, the memory of the rare brush of Ikuya’s skin imprinted into his hand.

Images pass him by.

Ikuya’s hair fanned out against the metal of the slide. His tea-colored eyes open and looking, held in his gaze. His legs caught between Hiyori’s, hands at his sides, lips parted, wet―

―he hates himself a little more as his hand slides down and under his waistband.

* * *

He’s restless, tossing and turning in his bed. His thoughts circle him. Shapeless things.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, stars flicker to life. Dusk turning to twilight. Twilight turning to night.

Far away, a whisper of a sound.

_“You could...Ikuya."_

It seems so faint. Pinpricks of light illuminate the world around him, a sea of stars, and the whisper becomes like the sound of his curtains, staticky, _shh. Shh._ Playing in the background, similar to the hum of his headphones.

Black hair and blue eyes begin to hover at the edges of his vision. A shadow with no warmth, no body. A phantom on the outskirts of his self, unable to be seen head on, unable to be grasped by his hands.

Yet he can feel it touch him, smooth and silky, a liquid touch. Its hands rest against his chest, sensations against his legs, arms, too many hands to be real, no warmth, no weight. Almost like air.

A whisper against his ear that makes no sound, breathes no breath. A ghost of a ghost.

_I’ll save you._

It might be his hair that brushes against his neck. It feels like a caress.

He feels that this is a bad idea.

His hand strays down anyways.

* * *

Ikuya’s pretty, Hiyori’s always thought so. He’s more than that, honestly speaking ― _ethereal_ is the first word that comes to mind, followed by _handsome_ , _beautiful_ , _cute_ , everything all at once, with the way his face fits together like something out of a dream, his hair the color of the deeper ocean, never seeming damaged despite all the chlorine. Smooth skin against all his angles, his hips, shoulder blades, collarbones. His smile that opens his universe and shatters his world all at once, eyes curling to happy crescents ― that smile burnt into his memory forever, lingering whenever he closes his eyes, a happy haunting.

Hiyori softly chokes on a sound as he touches himself, the image of Ikuya below him crossed with his half-naked body during practice, the moment right after a hard lap, lips and cheeks red and wet and panting, unaware, and Hiyori wants him so badly that he has to bite down on his knuckles to stay calm, keep himself quiet.

How many times has he thought these things? All the way since middle school, these same hazy dreams.

How many times in the dead of night, leaving their shared dorm room in high school and hiding away in the communal bathroom, desperately tugging with Ikuya’s pretty face the only thing on his mind. Praying to gods he doesn’t know that no one will walk in and hear him panting, hear him moan and whisper Ikuya’s name under his breath, still learning how to bite down on his words, choke on his sounds, throttle himself quiet.

 _Ikuya_ , he thinks, and doesn’t make a sound.

His hands are hot. His hands are hot and he imagines, dreams ― what if they were thinner, cooler, Ikuya’s, what if Ikuya put his hands on him, what if he could touch him skin to skin, pull his slim waist to his and whisper his name instead of choking on it, against his lips, his neck, his body, what if, what if―

* * *

Gentle touches and tugs, things almost teasing, quiet observation, whispers with no sound, no wind.

_I’m here. I’m here. I’m here for you._

Liquid, something touching him deep. Going into his skin. Filling where his weakness lies, blue eyes, skittering stars bouncing along the walls, and he makes a noise that could be a sob or a moan, maybe it’s both―

―something flashes by him, hazel and chestnut, pulling him away from liquid silk, hotter than the stars and weighted, words―

 _“―You don’t have to wish on stars_ ― _"_

―hot air, his hand suddenly burned in a grip, and he’s between two things, torn by two things, cool water and weighted heat. Things flicker around him, stars and steam, used ceramic and an untouched pool.

So much aches. He’s confused, half bubbles, waist deep in water, something sleek. The other half holding a coffee cup, sugary warm and heavy in his hand.

_“You like it this way, right? Sweet.”_

The brush of a mouth that feels too human against the shell of his ear, low and chipper and familiar. Hazel. Something that only looks at him, only looks his way, intent and intense and mouth curving, getting closer, a brush of words―

_“You’re strong.”_

―playful instead of pained, a whisper against him, a promise to prove it, if he wants, a testing murmur that asks for his permission while burning along his skin.

Yes? No?

_“Ikuya.”_

Warm air, real sound.

_“Well? Ikuya?”_

Bubbles, water against his knees, gentle waves. Everywhere he turns, a mixture, weight and nothingness.

Ikuya curls inward and moves his hand faster, wanting to run away, run towards, just run.

* * *

Ikuya under him, above him, skin flushed and moaning, crying out his name in a way that Hiyori knows he wouldn’t, wanting him in a way Hiyori knows he doesn’t, images and memories cut up and put together to fit. Soundbites of Ikuya’s sighs, soft smacks of his lips against teacups, murmured words.

 _This is pathetic,_ something inside him says, and the rest of him burns in _I know_.

His hand doesn’t stop. Things keep blurring together, little memories that shouldn’t mean anything, one second glimpses from the corners of his eyes.

Ikuya rarely initiates contact, rarely stands too close, but sometimes in the bus or the train he’ll have to come closer to avoid strangers, close enough that Hiyori can smell his body wash, something cheap and citrus, and Hiyori will be struck by his imagination, lightning all through his bones. He’ll see the nape of Ikuya’s neck when his head bows forward to look at his phone, and suddenly he’ll see himself letting go of the bar, reaching out to brush his fingers against the sensitive skin of Ikuya’s neck, moving his hair to press his lips against him, pressing closer until they’re nearly melded together.

He always grips the rail tighter instead.

But if he did ― if they were in an empty locker room with Ikuya undressing, slowly in that way that regularly has Hiyori reeling in his skin ― if Hiyori just reached out and pulled him in, kissed his shoulder blades and brushed his hair away from his neck, kissed him there too, if he did, would he ever get enough? If Ikuya didn’t shove him aside but instead let him come closer, leaned back and kissed him in return, would he ever come up for air again?

A strangled noise comes out. He bites the bend of his fingers, eyes screwed shut, focused on what feels like a movie reel.

Ikuya softly speaking his name. Ikuya’s hands on his chest. Ikuya looking his way and _seeing_ him, seeking him, begging for him, fingers tangled in his as Hiyori sucks him off, looking at him with pure adoration.

 _This is pathetic,_ the back of his mind says, yet his hand keeps moving, his dick is still hard, and he’s still aching, dreaming of Ikuya’s wide amber eyes.

* * *

Black rim glasses, bright blue eyes, chestnut hair that falls all wrong, a laugh with upturned eyebrows. Flickering hands, water and skin and hot and cool and Ikuya doesn’t know anymore and doesn’t care, keeps his eyes closed and pretends this is fine, _this is fine, this is fine._

Hiyori on his knees, eyes looking up.

“ _Sorry, sorry! My shoe came untied. You don’t have to wait for me, I’ll catch up_.”

Curving lips form a playful smile, but then―

―stars, a beautiful form, a pool at night and a promise that Ikuya keeps in his chest―

―warm tones, autumn and the taste of coffee, a flat white, lattes, bubble tea, Hiyori flustered,

_“I thought you’d like this place, maybe―”_

―rolling waves, blue eyes―

_“―Ikuya, this way.”_

A single hot palm trails down his arm, taking him in hand, still behind him with a fluttering whisper,  _“Here, I’ll help.”_

_You don’t have to―_

Chestnut. Hazel. Hiyori’s shy smile from a long time ago, _“You like it? Really?”_ as if Ikuya had hung the sun and the moon, then deeper, older, _“You like this, don’t you?”_

Hiyori on his knees. Hiyori half changed. Hiyori dripping in the locker room, wide chest and still flushed from swimming, images he keeps without realizing; Hiyori leaning over him, eyes warm instead of pained, the sky nowhere in sight.

 _“You like this,”_ Hiyori says softly against his neck, _“don’t you?”_

 _I don’t know_ , Ikuya thinks wildly, heart thrashing in his chest. _I don’t know_.

* * *

_Ikuya._

It’s coming closer, climbing quickly to the peak, and as it does his thoughts go out and away and to places he doesn’t usually dare go, hopes and fantasies kept locked up out of necessity.

White sheets, tangled up in each other, deep inside him and close enough to hear his heart, one hand with their fingers intertwined and the other braced against the bed sheets. Kissing him on the lips, cheek, his neck, trailing his way down and back, mapping out his body with his mouth until he has everything memorized, taste and texture, Ikuya on his tongue.

“Ikuya.” He whispers, and in his flowery fantasy Ikuya looks at him and smiles, the whole world in bloom, grins with delight and laughs happily, hiccupy moans at his touch. His hair is soft and he reaches for Hiyori with his free hand, plays with the hair on the back of his neck and kisses him so sweetly Hiyori thinks he might just die, that he’d be happy to do so.

His fist is slick and hot and he’s chasing for the end, comes hard in his hand at the thought of kissing Ikuya when he comes, of Ikuya kissing him while squeezing his hand. He no longer needs to breathe, swallows painfully and gasps as quietly as he can, pressure in his throat, Ikuya’s smile, citrus body wash.

* * *

It’s all warm, suddenly, all soft spoken cheer and admiring eyes, naked body he’s seen dozens of times in the locker rooms, in their past shared dorm room. Smooth skin shaved down for swimming, crescent-eyed smile, a gentle kind of laugh that doesn’t seem to know exactly what it’s doing, but in a charming sort of way.

 _“Ikuya,”_ his voice rings, singsong and so happy to see him,  _“you’re incredible.”_

His breath stutters, his hand jerks, dick twitches.

 _“You’re amazing.”_ Genuine down to the core. “ _So amazing, Ikuya._ ”

Hot palms are touching him all over, eyes roaming, pure admiration, and Ikuya turns his head and grits his teeth and grunts, holding a noise back in his throat where he demands it stay, stretching it thin until it’s a noiseless gust of air between clenched teeth.

 _Don’t look!_ He thinks,but Hiyori keeps on looking, same smile, same body, same touch, and Ikuya can’t pull away, can’t seem to get the desire to run to outweigh the desire to stay.

With a happy little smug smile, Hiyori continues to invade his senses, every turn a memory, image over weight over sound, layers building a too real imitation. The way Hiyori moves, heat of his hand on Ikuya’s own, spiraling up and down his arm, shoulder, everywhere.

Hiyori likes expensive soaps that smell like wood and vanilla; everything about him is warm. When they have to stand next to each other in the train he catches hints of it, and he’s never asked what brand it is because that would be admitting that he likes it, likes the way it mixes with Hiyori’s own―

―he grips his bed sheets in one hand and turns his head again, trying to shake whatever this is, Hiyori’s goddamn heat that makes him feel as if he’s melting, almost delirious. His cheeky smile goes sincere, a whisper, _“You’re so good, Ikuya,”_ like he knows the words will rattle him, will have him panting and hard and aching for more.

 _Stop it,_ Ikuya thinks, but he doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t leave. His palm is wet with precum. He moves his fist faster instead, strangled noises through closed lips. _Stop looking at me like that!_

 _“Cute,”_ Hiyori says in response, amusement and sincerity wrapped together tight, and Ikuya’s whole body twitches, his lower half going molten. “ _You’re cute, Ikuya.”_

He might have hiccuped, might have squeaked, might have hissed through his teeth again ― he’s too far gone to tell which. The whole world behind his eyelids is hazel, wafts of vanilla and something else; in his chest his heart is set to burst, beating painfully fast. He thinks he might be dying.

 _It’s just an orgasm,_ says the killjoy inside of him.

 _Shut the fuck up,_ says all the rest of him.

“Fuck,” says Ikuya, holding himself off.

Hiyori’s still touching him, still guiding his hand from behind, teasing the head while mouthing at his ear, whispering,

_“You like it like this, don’t you?”_

_I don’t know, I don’t know!_

He shifts, shudders.

_Just―_

_“Mm.”_ Hiyori hums, and Ikuya thinks that the sound comes from a memory of when they had gone to that place with the good hot chocolate, in the wintertime during their second year of high school. Hiyori had shot up like a weed, broad shoulders from a favored stroke and less gangly than expected, face sharper, suddenly older, suddenly  _different_.

_“This is good! You should try it.”_

There had been whipped cream. He had licked his lips to get it off, a tiny scrap, and Ikuya had been staring and then he had shut his eyes and told himself he wasn’t staring because it was _Hiyori_ ―

―his chestnut hair lit in night, street lamps _, “I think you’d like this place, Ikuya―”_

―why does his mouth have to move like that? Every word pronounced, lips curving so every syllable makes a proper shape. Why does he have to care about the way he dresses, well fitting jumpers and crisp pea coats, why does he have to smell like warm vanilla and wood, why does he have to talk like that _,_ why does he have to look his way like _that―_

―he trembles, reckless and fast, jerking hips―

―Hiyori leaning on a railing, small smile on his lips, head tilted his way. Hiyori looking at him with a shine in his eyes, his lips his mouth his mouth _his mouth,_ all soft and dry and warm as it presses into his soul, breathes into him and takes his breath away in the same moment, chestnut and hazel, black rim glasses and the vaguest tastes of coffee and vanilla cream.

 _“Ikuya,”_ the devil says with Hiyori’s voice, plying and gentle and earnest, hot breath fanning across his skin, and a gasp rips out of him as he comes.

Hiyori smiles, faint and familiar words from elsewhere.

_“Good job, Ikuya.”_

* * *

Flickers of teal sputter out like a dead TV behind his eyes, and when he opens them the ceiling is there to remind him of reality, an empty bed and a mess in his hand.

“Fuck.” Hiyori mumbles, and then carefully gets up, managing to keep his bed sheets clean save for the damp spots where his sweat had dripped, small splotches of darkness.

He washes his hands and rearranges himself, keeps his eyes averted from the dark spots on his bed when he goes to lie back down.

It’s just another one of those nights, he thinks, tossing an arm over his eyes. Just one more night to add to the tally of nights he’s gotten off while thinking of Ikuya, all wrapped up in white and warm. Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

* * *

Ikuya keeps his eyes shut for as long as he can, hoping to erase his memory through sheer will.

It doesn’t work. He can still hear everything, soft echoes of noise. Echoes of touch. Coffee and vanilla.

He cleans himself up methodically. Step by step, _forget it._

_It’s nothing. Just something stupid._

He doesn’t want to think about how much of Hiyori he actually knows, how much he actually remembers, how he had come to mind, how this whole mess had even started. That’d mean something. That’d mean―

_―Nothing. It’s nothing._

Ikuya lies back in his bed.

_Nothing._

He closes his eyes. Fading hazel turns to empty space, his own voice, _nothing, it’s nothing._

_Forget it._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really...Write explicit things like this often because I consider myself pretty bad at it, but somehow hiyoiku pressed the right combination of buttons to make me want to. So this happened. I'm...I'm honestly not sure if it really belongs in this category though, with the way it ended up. I'm not entirely sure I'm tagging the right things either. God I hope nobody came into this thinking they were going to be jerking it together, er. My bad if so.
> 
> In my opinion, Hiyori's biggest dream is like, the most intense vanilla thing you can think of. All I could think of was this meme format:
> 
> hiyori: my kink is when someone genuinely likes and wants me entirely  
> hiyori @ himself: too unrealistic  
> hiyori: guess I'll just die then
> 
> and Ikuya has a praise kink that he doesn't want to talk about and in fact would like to not acknowledge until the next time it crops up. If you've got questions, feel free to ask. There's some more conceptual stuff I tried to weave into this, but hell if I did it right. Thanks for reading.


End file.
